I don’t even know how I did it, really. I was knitting and drinking a soda and reaching for something else with another of my tentacles and somehow I knocked the television remote onto the hardwood floor. This wasn’t the first time the remote had been knocked into the floor, but all too sadly, it shall be the last.

It’s gone now. Gone. And, much like Firefly, no prayers to the television gods will bring it back.

I did everything for it I could.

I removed its batteries. I put its batteries back in. I took them out again. I put them back in. You get the idea. I also took the liberty of clunking it ever so gently on the arm of the sofa, in hopes that whatever tiny mechanism had got loose might find its way home again mid-clunk. But, alas! No luck.

When all hope was lost, I made the call. I pray that none of you will ever have to phone a loved one and tell them you killed the remote. If you ever do, try and muster up a cry in your voice so that you sound properly repentant.

But, in all honesty, Michael is taking the news far better than I expected. He callously tossed the broken remote into the trash and he says he’s scoping out a new model. He is talking about the remote, isn’t he?

I awakened in the middle of the night with the kind of hangover which can only be caused by too much tequila and a “Sci-Fi Original Movie” entitled “Mansquito”, so here I am. I’m eating a banana and drinking some water, and I intend to type until one of these remedies begins to work for me.

So, yeah, our family watched “Mansquito” last night. I gotta tell ya, the hubby and I were pretty excited when we saw the title. Writers who use that sort of balls-out syllable combining don’t come along every day, and when they do – baby, you gotta be there.

The man into bug theme has been used before, of course, and it’s been done better. First, there was Metamorphosis, then, years later, there was that movie “The Fly” which, impressively enough, starred What’s His Name and co-starred What’s Her Name. That was a memorable flick. But, you can never consider any theme truly done to death until the folks at the Sci-Fi channel get their collective grubby paws on it.

So, in case you wondered:

God is dead. Bela Lugosi? Also dead. Franz Kafka is dead as well. Last but not least, the man into bug theme is now officially dead. I, on the other hand, am just sleepy. Goodnight all.

When I buy hand soap, I always get the “economy size”, but we still manage to go through it fairly quickly, because, apparently, we need the “obsessive-compulsive” size.

Beth has set herself up as a benevolent dictator. She’s pregnant, so she can do that sort of thing. She said so herself.

I wouldn’t dream of cutting in on her territory. Firstly, I don’t think she’s quite so pregnant that she can’t lift her leg to kick my ass. Secondly, she hasn’t tried to usurp my role as timekeeper of the universe or as a great and powerful oracle.

I do, however, have have one little suggestion that I would appreciate her adding to the list:

Medical professionals who begin sentences with “At your age…” should be exiled to live among wolves. If, in their callousness, they piss off the wolves as well, it should be left up to the wolves themselves as to whether the offenders should be eaten entirely or just chewed on now and again.